Making History
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes lay unconscious and handcuffed to John's bed. John had been waiting for this day ever since he'd first met the consulting detective. He'd been waiting for centuries really. (Vampire John. Dark John. Dubious consent.)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes lay unconscious and handcuffed to John's bed, a soft piece of fabric securely tied between his lips. It'd been easy for John to slip the chloral hydrate into his flat mate's coffee, even easier to carry the taller, thinner man up the steps to his own room where the bed had been ready and waiting. John felt as though he'd been waiting for this day ever since he'd spotted the consulting detective in the bright lab at Bart's.

John had been waiting for centuries really.

Seated on the edge of the bed, he reached out and flattened the rumpled lapel of Sherlock's black suit—no need to put wrinkles in such fine material. His eyes ran over the dark purple shirt, buttons fit to burst; over the expensive black trousers, the shiny black shoes. He disliked the gag in his companion's mouth, and although he knew Sherlock Holmes was not a man for screaming, John wanted the chance to speak, to explain his actions so far and what was to come. There was a lot to explain.

First, he needed to wait for Sherlock to wake. It took much less time than John expected. Sherlock tried to gasp air through his lips but made a muffled choking sound around the fabric. That was when his eyes shot open, bright light blue. John knew he would be somewhat disoriented from the drug but not so disoriented that his eyes did not immediately find John, sitting there above him. The handcuffs rattled when Sherlock tried to sit up, and John heard his heart rate increase.

"Sherlock. Let me explain."

He didn't try to speak through the gag. He froze, stretched out on the bed, his eyes fixed on John.

John folded his hands in his lap and studied his palms. "You say I see but don't observe. How true of you, Sherlock." He ran the tip of his finger over his own lifeline. "Was it the limp? The cane? The way I found you to be so astonishing? Did all of my brokenness and wonder blind you to what I really was? Maybe." He lifted his gaze and met Sherlock's, whose chest now rose and fell in quick bursts, betraying his veiled panic.

They'd known each other little more than a month, and now, the seemingly sweet John Watson had handcuffed the great detective to a bed, bound and gagged, with no one around to hear. John could only imagine the crime scene photos scrolling through Sherlock's brilliant mind.

"You can't blame Stamford. He didn't know—never knew. Never suspected." John shook his head. "He didn't know how putting you in my line of sight would end, how it would end here, with you at my mercy." He rubbed his eyes, so tired of hiding from Sherlock. Now that he'd made up his mind … Well, he'd made up his mind the moment he'd shot that cabbie, hadn't he? He'd decided no one would take Sherlock from him. No one.

"It'll hurt, Sherlock," he continued.

Trapped in handcuffs, Sherlock's long fingers curled into fists.

"I remember it hurting," John said. "But I need you to understand, I want you to understand, why I need to do this. Your mind, it has to be preserved. I can't sit back and watch you get old, your brain wasted away. I can't. The world needs you." He smiled and licked his upper lip. "If I'm honest, I need you. I've spent so much time looking for you." He put his hand on the center of Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock didn't tense beneath his touch. "The body matches the mind—quick, brutal, beautiful. I need you to stay like this forever." John inched closer on the bed. "Do you understand, Sherlock? Do you see _and_ observe?"

His lips moved around the gag, and John made out a single, rumbling word: his own name.

John untied the fabric, confident Sherlock would not start cawing for help. If John knew Sherlock, his curiosity would keep him subdued.

Free of the gag, Sherlock pressed his lips together and then licked top and bottom. "You don't mean to kill me," he said.

John hesitated. "It's part of the process, yeah. But I'll bring you back, and you'll wake up like me."

Sherlock's dark eyebrows lowered. "Show me what you really look like."

John allowed the creature to take over, and his light eyes turned black. The tips of fangs hung over his bottom lip as he stared down at his captive.

"How?" Sherlock commanded. "You eat normal food. You walk about in the day."

"All you know of my kind is merely myth. We're no different from you, except for …" He tilted his head. "Well, a few minor differences, of course."

Sherlock didn't blink. "Do I have a choice?"

John reverted to human form. "No." He returned his hand to Sherlock's chest and caught the _thud-thud_ of his heart between his fingers.

"If you are what I presume you to be, you're strong enough to overpower me, so why am I bound? Why slip drugs in my coffee when you could forcibly take what you seek?"

John moved his hand up and cupped Sherlock's face. Still, his friend did not flinch. His heart rate had slowed, as well. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to find cold resolve in the face of death. "I didn't want you to fight me. I didn't want to hurt you more than I have to."

"How do you know I would have fought?"

John ran his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. "People fight when they're dying. Even the brave ones. Even men like you. They fight against the darkness. It's human nature." He pulled his hand away and gestured to Sherlock's supine form on his bed. "It's easier if you're like this, for both of us. Believe me."

"You've done this before, chosen someone," Sherlock said.

"Once. A very long time ago."

"And what became of him?"

John smiled. "He painted the Sistine Chapel, among other things. He eventually took his own life. Grew tired of immortality. He was brilliant, of course, but not as gorgeous as you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You mean to take me as a lover. I assume I have a choice in that at least."

"Yes. But know that, if given the opportunity, I would worship you like a king." He ran his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip before dragging his hand away again. So close to his goal, it was becoming harder and harder for John to control his urge to take, touch, feed. The creature, usually easy to manage, boiled beneath the surface. It bobbed up for a glance with every jump of Sherlock's pulse. It _wanted._

"You said it will hurt."

John nodded.

"How does it happen? What's the process?"

John smirked—his intended, always a scientist, even when held prisoner and about to be killed. "I cut you open. I drink your blood until you die. Then, I give you a bit of mine, and you live again." He looked away. "It's the feeding that hurts. The blood will turn to fire in your veins. I wish it were different. I wish I could pleasure you instead, but birth is painful. The gag will have to go back in, I'm afraid."

"You can't possibly believe I'll beg for mercy."

"You won't even be conscious of your actions while I feed. Your screams could conceivably wake a city block."

Sherlock blinked up at him several times. His Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed. "How long have you known? How long have you planned this for me?"

John ran his hand again over the fabric of Sherlock's suit, ironing wrinkles with his palm. "Since I shot a cabbie to save your life. Since I realized I couldn't let you die—not ever. Not with all you have to offer. Think of what you could accomplish with lifetimes, Sherlock."

"By your side?"

John's hand rested on Sherlock's hip. "I can dream of such things."

"My fate was decided weeks ago, and I had no idea."

"You saw but didn't observe."

Sherlock chuckled and stared at the ceiling. His shoulders were relaxed, despite the handcuffs binding him to the bed. He took long, slow breaths.

John stood before straddling Sherlock's hips on the bed. Sherlock still stared above him as John unbuttoned the top of his shirt. His hands hung loosely in the cuffs, even when John replaced the fabric gag, even when John touched his face—warm for not much longer.

"Just so you know."

Sherlock's eyes met his.

"I feel it's my duty to preserve every brilliant bit of your mind and body. But, for the record, I do love you. How could I not?" He leaned closer. "Are my actions selfish?" He pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock's throat. "Let history decide."

And Sherlock screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Sherlock."_

He heard his name as though from the bottom of a pond.

 _"Sherlock."_

Some version of consciousness grew. His mind returned to his body at least. He knew he was still in John's bed, although his wrists were no longer bound. Instead, he lay on his side, legs curled up—and his fingers curled in thick fabric. No, his fingers were _fisted_ in thick fabric like claws, so much so that his knuckles ached. Beyond his closed eyelids, the world already seemed much too bright.

"Sherlock, wake up."

He pulled at the fabric in his fingers and buried his forehead against what he now realized was John's chest. The thick fabric was the weave of John's sweater. It was John's body in bed with him, one hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I need you to look at me."

John smelled different.

 _The smell of safety_ , Sherlock thought groggily. _How ridiculous._

Ridiculous or not, the newly realized scent of his immortal flat mate filled Sherlock's nose as he took a deep breath that made him tug John even closer—so close that their legs intermeshed beneath the covers, and John's hand moved to Sherlock's lower back.

"Look at me, Sherlock. Now."

Sherlock opened his eyes but squinted against the daylight. John's hands relinquished all other activity to take a firm hold on Sherlock's face, tipping his chin up. John looked fuzzy, but Sherlock could see he smiled.

"There you are. Yes, there you are." He kissed Sherlock's forehead and carded fingers through his hair.

Sherlock fell back into the sleep of the dead.

* * *

 _Pain. Oh, God, the pain._ Sherlock screamed against his gag as John's fangs dug into him. He fought his restraints until he thought the bed might break—must break—to stop the burning that scorched his whole body. He'd never wished for death, but he wished for it then, especially when John held tighter, bit deeper, and Sherlock's screams became muffled, guttural begging for John to _stop, please, stop_.

He shot up in bed with a sob.

"Sherlock." John was still at his side, this time with a soothing hand on his upper back.

Sherlock sucked breath into his lungs and sobbed once more, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands.

John rubbed his back. "All right, it's all right. It's done."

"It's too bright."

"Your eyes will adjust," John whispered. His touch left Sherlock as John began to slide free from the opposite side of the bed.

Something about his exit, his vacancy, made Sherlock's hand shoot out and latch onto John's forearm. Sherlock glared at him, and John, eyes soft, seemed to understand.

"Okay." He sat back down on the bed.

Neither man spoke for several minutes. Sherlock noticed his eyes were indeed adjusting to the light. The sun didn't make his vision ache anymore. In fact, the entire room was beginning to come into focus in a way it never had before as if his eyes had become magnifying glasses. Strangely, the only scent he could catalogue was John. The room was filled with his scent and nothing more.

"Why can't I smell anything but you? Why is the room so filled with you?" He glanced behind him but did not look at John. "And why on earth am I terrified for you to leave?"

"It's residual, Sherlock, from drinking my blood. It will pass. Now, I'm not leaving. I just want to come around and look at you." John pulled free of Sherlock's grip on his arm and circled the bed. He sat on the edge, right beside Sherlock's hip, and took his face in his hands. His thumb ran gently across the skin below Sherlock's mouth. "Despite the gag, you bit right through your bottom lip." He sighed. "It's healed now."

Sherlock hadn't even noticed the brown leather doctor's bag on the floor, but John reached for it and pulled out a tiny flashlight. Sherlock winced and turned away when John tried to study his eyes.

"Let me make sure you're responsive, yeah?"

He forced Sherlock's chin back toward him and flashed the light quickly into each of Sherlock's eyes. It burned like hell.

"Good." John put the damned flashlight away. "Everything's perfect. You're perfect."

Sherlock glanced back at the now empty handcuffs that still hung from John's bed frame. He remembered ripping at his bounds, yet he studied his pale wrists and found no marks. "Why am I healed?"

"It's part of the transformation. Drinking my blood healed you. All your scars will be gone, as well. You're reborn."

He again eyed the cuffs. "Not bound to the bed, yet still your prisoner."

John shook his head but didn't look at him. "No."

"You knew I would feel like this."

John bit his upper lip.

"Drawn to you. Filled with you. _Dependent on you_." Sherlock spat the words. "I feel it, merely sitting here—the longing to give myself to you, and that longing wasn't there before."

"Sherlock—"

When Sherlock stood, John flew from the edge of the bed and onto his back on the floor. "You told me I would have a choice, whether or not to be taken as your lover, but this feels nothing like a choice. I fear I would go so far as to beg for it, and you did this knowingly!" The feel of his fangs gave Sherlock pause. He hadn't even noticed them until that moment of rage, but the pause gave John enough time to stand, knock Sherlock onto the bed, wrap his fist around his throat, and squeeze.

Sherlock choked.

John growled through his enormous teeth. "You may have thrown temper tantrums in life, Sherlock Holmes, but I won't be pushed around anymore. I will not be chastised."

Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's at his throat, but John's grip was like forged iron.

John leaned forward and spoke right into Sherlock's ear. "You're _mine_. To do with as I see fit. I'm much older than you and stronger, so don't make me punish you. I've given you a gift, you fool."

He finally let go, and Sherlock, coughing, gasped for air. John remained above him, straddling his chest, his eyes blown black. Sherlock, physically much bigger than John Watson, had never felt so small.

"Your immortality was never your choice. Yes, I admit I forced that upon you, but I will not force love. I will not force intimacy. Those aspects of our partnership are in your hands." He climbed off the bed and stood. "No matter how much I love you and want …" He shook his head. "You need fresh blood."

Sherlock sat up to the sound of John hurrying downstairs. He lifted his hands and stared at them. Was he a prisoner or a prince, he wondered? Was John's bite a gift or a curse? Who was John really: the gentle doctor, loyal friend, or choking hand around his throat?

He returned with an insulated cup. He twisted off the lid and handed it to Sherlock. "Drink. You'll feel better."

"Than what?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow but took the cup and drank willingly. The first drop of blood on his tongue was ten times better than cocaine—twenty times, a million times …

John knelt in front of him and put one hand on his knee. "I'm sorry. My temper. I drained your body of blood and filled it with my own. It's odd for both of us. I'm not myself at the moment, Sherlock. Being close to you right now is necessary for your well being but can bring out my baser instincts. I apologize. I am sorry, love." John's closed his eyes and winced.

The fresh blood's effect covered Sherlock like a thick blanket of euphoria. "Is that how you think of me, John? _Love_?"

John pulled his hand away from Sherlock's knee but nodded.

"Then, you can call me love." He heard the now empty cup of blood hit the wooden bedroom floor as he fell back among the sheets. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Vaguely, he felt someone lift his head and put a pillow beneath. Someone pulled covers over him and removed his shoes.

Someone kissed his forehead and whispered, "Rest, love," and of course it was John because no one but John had called Sherlock Holmes "love" before.


	3. Chapter 3

Night had fallen in Baker Street, and yet, Sherlock still floated in a state of rare coherency. Birth was never easy, and now, he was high on fresh blood. Beneath the covers of John's bed, his long fingers clung to the front of John's jumper, his black curls a halo of shadow shoved against John's upper chest. For his part, John leaned on one elbow above him as his other hand rubbed light circles on Sherlock's upper ribs.

"How old are you?" Sherlock muttered in his half-sleep.

"Very old."

" _How_ old?"

John ran his palm over the soft fabric of Sherlock's silk shirt. He'd managed to remove the suit coat, but getting his beloved out of clothing was proving much harder than he'd hoped. "A bit over 700 years. Would you believe I was a baron? I even had a mustache."

"You would look old with a mustache."

"That was the idea at the time."

Sherlock's eyes remained closed, and John thought he might have slipped back into a newborn blood haze until he said, "How many people have you killed?"

John continued running his hand over Sherlock's side, his fingertips bouncing from the edge of one pronounced rib to the next. "I've killed hundreds."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"I do."

Sherlock's hands held tighter to John's jumper. "I think I will, too," he muttered and went silent for long minutes.

His poor consulting detective had no idea what that simple phrase did to John. Just the thought of watching Sherlock bleed someone dry sent John's immortal body into a fury of arousal.

John was playing an unfair game, he knew.

When Sherlock had grown angry with him earlier, accused John of creating him with the full knowledge that Sherlock would be irresistibly drawn to his maker, John had said the feeling would pass—and it would. Just not yet. He would give Sherlock a choice, whether they would be lovers or not, but when Sherlock said things like that … _I think I will, too_ … when he put those images in John's mind, how could a vampire resist? Especially a vampire who'd been fixated on the man in his arms since the moment they'd met. A vampire who'd wanted Sherlock Holmes naked and begging since day one.

John moved lower on the bed. Sherlock floated on the euphoria of fresh blood, so he might not even remember a simple kiss. In order to reach Sherlock's mouth, though, John had to first disentangle those long musician's fingers from his jumper. He gently pulled them away and folded Sherlock's cold hands in his. He slid down the bed until he and Sherlock were nose to nose, the detective's eyes closed in semi-sleep.

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's lips once.

A small grunt escaped his flat mate's throat.

John kissed him again, and this time, Sherlock's lips moved just a little.

"Open your mouth for me, love," John said, and Sherlock did as instructed. John allowed himself a swipe of his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth. He pulled back and sucked on Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock made another noise like a sigh, his eyes still shut.

John's hand cupped Sherlock's face. "You taste divine." He dragged Sherlock's face forward, John's hand now moved to the back of his neck, and kissed him open-mouthed and hard. He stopped when Sherlock made a quiet sound of dissent.

"You called me gorgeous," he slurred, his blue eyes now open but unfocused, hazy. "No one's ever called me that before. And you call me _love_. Why? I'm not lovable. I'm heartless and rude. I'm too thin. I look strange."

"Sherlock, you're stunning. My dear Michelangelo would have painted you in a second, after bedding you, I presume."

Sherlock shook his head. "No one has ever bedded me."

John's brow furrowed as he tried to comprehend … But he couldn't … Sherlock couldn't be … This powerful, brilliant, charismatic man could not possibly be … "You're _a virgin_?"

The side of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "I was right, John. You see but do not observe."

If Sherlock had once hoped to be given the choice of becoming the good doctor's lover, that choice dissipated with John's realization that his beautiful darling was untouched. John growled as he flipped Sherlock onto his back, straddled his hips, and pinned his arms above his head. John felt his eyes go black, although his fangs remained hidden. He was fully prepared to tear ever piece of annoying fabric from Sherlock's body and take him, still under John's spell, high on blood, but the entire selfish plan was destroyed by the cool, calculated sound of Sherlock's voice.

"I though I had a choice."

John's black eyes met clear blue.

"How many lies do you plan on telling me, John?"

Obvious in his gaze and the tense set of his jaw, Sherlock wasn't as high as John had expected. He was in full control of his faculties, and the expression on his face was murderous.

"You're not as high as I thought," John said.

"Clearly."

John let go of Sherlock's wrists and leaned back on his heels, although he still held the detective trapped to the bed by his thighs. After John's earlier show of strength, he very much doubted Sherlock would fight back—yet. He sighed. "We still have a good twelve hours or so until you're you again, until you're even ready to leave this bed really. Why don't we play a game? Kill some time?"

"A game?"

"A challenge."

Sherlock's fingers touched his mouth, consciously or not. He could probably still taste John. John certainly still tasted Sherlock—an enticing mix of coffee, spice, and smoke. "What sort of challenge?"

John's eyes were still black. He still looked ferocious as he leaned over his creation, hands on either side of Sherlock's head. "A battle of self-control, yeah? I get the chance to touch you and taste you, but only after you've said yes or no."

Sherlock's forehead descended into a crinkle of wrinkles. "What on earth would be the point?"

John leaned closer until his lips touched Sherlock's ear. "I want to see if I can turn your 'yes' into ' _please_.'"

Sherlock sniffed and turned his head away.

John hid again behind his human façade. "Are you afraid you'll lose, love?"

"I have no interest in sex."

John shrugged. "Well, then, why not best the ancient monster before you? Why not prove a newborn can be stronger?"

"I have no interest in sex _usually_ ," Sherlock said quickly. "You know you've weakened that part of me. You know I'm more drawn to you right now than I would be under normal circumstances. You're taking advantage."

John smiled but kept his fangs hidden. "You're never weak. Something I love about you. Show me you can beat me."

"Fine."

John licked the edge of his lip. "May I kiss you again? Gently."

Sherlock's eyes studied the ceiling. "Yes."

John leaned down, tilted his head, and kissed Sherlock once, gently. His hands moved to the top of Sherlock's dark purple shirt. "May I unbutton your shirt?"

"No."

"Okay." He smirked. "May I touch you at least? Your chest maybe?"

"Yes."

First, John pulled his sweater over his head and threw it on the ground. For someone so long dead, he felt very warm. In his thin, plaid button-down, he felt better. He felt much, much better when his open palms came to rest on Sherlock's pecs, his fingertips spread near his collarbone. He ran his hands down Sherlock's chest and over the front of his rib cage but stopped when he reached his abdomen, fingers wrapping around a trim waist. John took a deep breath through his nose. "God, you feel good." He closed his eyes and ran his hands back up Sherlock's torso.

An unfamiliar sound bubbled just beneath the surface of human hearing—a small moan from Sherlock. John's eyes popped open only to find Sherlock's eyes closed, his hands curled into fists on top of the blankets. John had the urge to dig his fangs into that long throat again. He pressed his tongue against one half-extended canine because he would not waste a yes or no on that, not when there were so many other thrilling things to do with Sherlock's body.

"How about a massage, hmm? May I massage your hips?"

Sherlock's eyes opened. "My hips? Whatever for?"

"Most people hold tension in their hips." Without waiting for approval, John pushed one of his thumbs near Sherlock's hip flexor, and Sherlock actually gasped in pain. "See?" He so innocently used both thumbs on either side of Sherlock's pelvis and pushed and prodded. "See how good that feels?"

"Mm." Sherlock's eyes had closed again, but his hands were no longer fists on the mattress. His fingers extended, they now danced like large spiders atop soft sheets.

"The tension will be all down the front of your thighs," John whispered, his hands following his mouth's orders. And indeed, Sherlock's thighs were tight—thick lines of muscle, toned and strong from chasing criminals through the streets of London.

John tried not to smile as he noticed a change to the front of Sherlock's black trousers. They seemed to grow tighter and tighter by the second, and the sight of Sherlock's growing pleasure sent sudden, awakening bolts to John's groin, as well. There was not a chance Sherlock Holmes would leave John's bed a virgin—not a one. It was not part of the initial plan, taking control like this, no. When John had decided to make Sherlock a vampire, he had hoped they would become lovers, as well, as often happened under normal circumstances. However, Sherlock was not normal, so John had not known what to expect. He'd been kind at first, allowing Sherlock the freedom to choose, but a monster's kindness only went so far. No, John knew it was a futile delusion to think Sherlock had a choice anymore.

He'd not had a choice in becoming immortal; he wouldn't have a choice in this either. But that didn't mean it had to be bad. Quite the contrary.

John released his hold on Sherlock's upper thighs and loomed over him. When he kissed the side of Sherlock's neck—without asking—he rubbed their clothed erections together. Sherlock's back arched. His groan rumbled through the air and made John shudder at its indecency.

"Do that again," Sherlock whispered.

John licked his throat. "Beg me."

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"Say it."

He turned his head away, which made the tendons in his neck stick out in alluring contrast. Impatient, John used his human teeth and bit down.

Sherlock cried out in pain but soon sputtered, "Please."

John had won their little game.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes might have been a virgin, but he wasn't an idiot. He was also much more attuned to his faculties than John seemed to believe. He also knew how to fight, although he'd had yet to try out his new vampire strength. This seemed as good a time as any, and Sherlock never backed down from a "challenge," as John had so innocently put it—before things got, well, a bit out of his depth.

Sherlock found himself uncomfortably hard in trousers that felt impossibly tight with a 700-year-old vampire pinning him to the bed. That bite to his throat had hurt, even without the use of John's impressive fangs. Why not return the favor, only ...

Sherlock only had to think about his fangs to make them work, which was a happy realization. He wasn't sure what John would do if Sherlock actually used them, but experiments were part of Sherlock's life, weren't they?

Granted, when John pressed his erection against Sherlock's, the consulting detective did lose a bit of his deviant intent what with all the pleasure. _God, the pleasure._ He'd messed around before—the odd college dalliance—but nothing like this, this level of heat. He wondered if it was due to his new vampire senses or due to John.

Lovely, monstrous, utterly dominant John Watson, who ground against him and licked at Sherlock's throat. So distracted, it was easy for Sherlock to lift his head, fangs out, and break John's skin where neck met shoulder.

John cussed and pulled away but not before Sherlock got a mouthful of his blood. John leaned up and put his hand on his neck, his eyes black. "You bit me."

Sherlock smiled and licked the blood from his lips. "I'm not a wilting ingénue. I'm a monster, like you. Remember?"

John, his own fangs now shining in the lamplight, shook his head and smiled. "Oh, you awful thing. I'm going to punish you for that."

Sherlock leaned up on his elbows, the pungent flavor of John's blood still in his throat. "You operate under some delusion that I won't fight back."

"No, love." John leaned down and pressed their noses together. "I'm counting on it."

"I will not allow the use of handcuffs again. I consider that cheating."

"You've become quite demanding all of a sudden, when I seem to recall you being nothing more than a begging pile of _want_ a mere thirty seconds ago." He leaned forward and clasped Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth but didn't bite down—although Sherlock knew he very easily could have broken that delicate skin. John sucked on his lip and let go. "I'm going to tear those clothes off you."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "Try."

John grinned, which Sherlock recognized as a ruse. His dark doctor was the picture of predator, looming above him, ready to pounce. Faster than Sherlock would have thought possible, John's hand moved—so fast that his hand looked like nothing but a flesh-colored mist. Next thing Sherlock knew, the top four buttons on his shirt were gone.

"I liked this shirt," Sherlock growled, and he used his long legs to trap John and toss him onto his side on the bed. Free of his flat mate, Sherlock dove from the bed and raced down the steps to the living room below with no idea of his plans, only that it felt good to be free of John's bed.

Of course, before Sherlock could assess his surroundings—possible weapons—John was on him, shoving him into a wall so hard, Sherlock's head swung back and cracked into plaster. His vision shook for a moment as John tugged the back of his hair, tilting his chin toward the ceiling.

"I'm not waiting for a yes this time," he said and dug his massive fangs into Sherlock's throat with a victorious snarl.

Despite the broken skin, the suckling of his undead blood, Sherlock felt nothing but pleasure, something beyond the sexual, as John fed again. "God …" He held John's head in his hands, a silent entreaty of _more, more._

John pulled away and licked Sherlock's wounds. "Liked that, did you?"

"Why should that feel so good? You drinking from me?"

"Pain is a big part of pleasure when you're already dead." John ran his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones and his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock had basically forgotten why he was fighting back in the first place. Why fight how good this felt, the feel of John's hands on him? Not when John smelled so delicious.

 _No._ He remembered. He only felt these urges because of the change, because John was his maker. His body betrayed his mind as he knew intellectually that John took advantage. His stubborn transport, however, didn't seem to care in the least, which was why he shoved John backwards with his newfound strength and felt a sense of awe when John flew ten feet across the room.

"Well." John licked his bottom lip and straightened his shirt. "You're stronger than most newborns. I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been exceptional."

"As I believe you're aware, flattery will get you nowhere." Suddenly, Sherlock's head spun. The room tilted.

"Sherlock!" John caught him around the waist and put one hand on his chest. "You're not ready to be out of bed so soon after your transformation, especially in the midst of a fight. Damn it, I told you it would be a good twelve hours until you were yourself again."

Sherlock felt his knees wobble, the earlier bodily pleasures waned away. His eyelids felt heavy. "John …"

Without a moment lost, John scooped Sherlock into his arms as though carrying nothing more than a six-foot piece of fabric and carried him back upstairs to his bed. He laid Sherlock down, but before he could pull up the tangled blankets, Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist.

"Promise."

John tilted his head. "What?"

"You won't take advantage of me like this."

John closed his eyes.

"Wait until I'm ready. I can't fight you off in this state. I'm not an idiot. You could easily take what you so desire, but give me that level of respect for now. John."

John's eyes opened, and he knelt beside the bed. He laid his hand across Sherlock's bare chest, revealed from beneath his torn shirt. Already, Sherlock felt the teeth marks on his neck were healed, and John's touch felt soft, almost comforting, despite the looming threat of the vampire by his bed.

"I promise," John said. "Although it was a fun game."

Sherlock chuckled, already slipping back to sleep. "Will I ever trust you again?"

"I think so." John took Sherlock's pliant hand in his. "Although if I thought you were hard to resist as a human, you being a vampire certainly upped the ante. You're amazing. And I can't believe you bit me, you tit."

Sherlock smiled as his mind fell down a dark tunnel. "I like the way you taste."

Before he reached full unconsciousness, he thought he heard a hum of approval from John. He definitely felt John's cold lips press against the side of his mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't stay in his bedroom much longer—not with Sherlock asleep and so very tempting with his soft skin and torn shirt. A virgin was too much of an enticement to John and not just any virgin: Sherlock Holmes, a _virgin_.

The man of John's singular, bloody obsession.

The man John needed to preserve for eternity.

The man John longed to touch and take.

The man he would take … but not yet.

No, even John knew better than to linger after making his promise to not take advantage of the detective's weakness. John tried to keep his promises, although he often failed miserably. He would keep this one for now, although Sherlock's surprise attack had only boiled John's blood all the more.

Sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea, he reached up and rubbed the side of his neck where Sherlock's fangs had penetrated his immortal flesh. He pressed against his own skin, the residual ache evoking a quiet moan from his parted lips. In death, Sherlock attacked much as he had in life: shocking his opponent with brashness and speed.

Their lovemaking would be voracious. John rubbed his face at the thought but jumped at the unexpected nearby sound of Sherlock's deep voice.

"You kept your promise."

He stood in the doorway, and despite 700 years of practice, John hadn't heard the newborn vampire descend the stairs. Sherlock's black hair was flat on one side. He wore the same torn shirt, untucked, and trousers with stocking feet. His bright eyes seemed sunken in his head, and his shoulders slumped. John knew he needed human blood.

"I'm capable of keeping promises," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Some promises," John whispered. "Doesn't mean I'll keep the promise indefinitely, though. I'm going to destroy your virginity eventually." And John winked.

Sherlock stepped back from the kitchen doorway, possibly to get away from John's scent. With the morning light just beginning to creep outside the windows of Baker Street, he would still be drawn to John as his maker, but the ability to resist would soon strengthen. Resistance was already strong, in fact—not a surprise from one Sherlock Holmes. John knew the detective was used to being the charmer, as opposed to the one being charmed. He'd done it a dozen times on cases, all part of the game.

Now, they played a new game, just the two of them.

John stood from the table and stepped forward. Sherlock took a step back, so John stopped moving and held his hands out at his sides. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The side of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"Did I hurt you earlier, when you attacked me? No, I took care of you, as a good doctor should."

Sherlock's eyes, still a bit dull, struggled to sharpen, focus. "How many of your patients have you bled, good doctor?"

John folded his hands behind him. "None. I tend to separate work and pleasure."

"I'm hungry," Sherlock said.

John grinned. "Well, that's something, isn't it?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Sherlock Holmes is hungry. Never thought I'd see the day." John opened the fridge. He was prepared—had brought home extra blood in several separate canisters for his flat mate. He filled a coffee mug with thick, red blood, and passed it to Sherlock, their fingers touching.

Sherlock finished the mug in two long gulps and extended his arm as if asking for more.

John shook his head. "Nope. All you get for now. Don't want you too strong."

Sherlock blinked. "So I could be stronger than you?"

John took the mug, set it on the counter, and smirked. "Not a chance, love. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and rocked back and forth, heal to toe. He rode out a blood high, John knew, which made John feel a slight sting of dread up the back of his neck. He knew Sherlock was an addict, but being addicted to blood could end up quite messy. Of course, John was a killer, but he controlled the dark creature inside him and kept to a few murders a year. Would Sherlock be able to do the same?

Sherlock's tongue in his mouth interrupted his dark musings. John moaned, his head cupped in Sherlock's large hands. He latched onto the torn front of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him closer before shoving him away.

"Now, you're just keyed up from the blood." John smiled. "Wouldn't want to _take advantage_."

"Oh, bollocks." Eyes blown black, Sherlock swooped in, pressed his nose against John's neck, and took a long, deep breath of his maker. He then leaned in for another kiss and shoved John back onto the kitchen table. Of course, John moved fast and flipped them sideways so Sherlock ended up on his back, sprawled with his head near a microscope. When he tried to sit up, John held him down.

"Uh-uh." John shook his head. "I'm always on top, love."

In response, Sherlock flipped them both over and onto the floor. They landed with a crash that knocked the wind from John's lungs and a chair on its side with a metallic _bang_. Again, Sherlock kissed him, but again, John was having none of it. Almost laughing with the absurdity of his fiendish new creation, John managed to use his leg as a hook and flip himself onto Sherlock's back, pinning a struggling detective against linoleum tile. John went so far as to twist Sherlock's arm behind his back, trapping him, even as he clawed at the floor and tried to get some leverage. Sherlock's stocking feet were of no assistance, but the effect was enough to make John sigh in pleasure as Sherlock ground up against him.

"Oh, yes, keep fighting. Just … like … that."

Apparently noticing John's excited state—right against his ass—Sherlock froze, and John smiled into the back of his neck.

"What if I like being on top?"

"How would you know?" John asked.

Sherlock was silent and pliant for a moment. "I have my suspicions."

"Well, you'll always be below me, love, and what with your dominant personality in public, I have a funny feeling you'll have a hidden submissive streak in the bedroom."

Sherlock exhaled a heavy breath. "John."

"Mm?"

"Can we keep kissing now? I need to catalogue the way you taste in my current condition."

"And what condition is that?" John teased.

"Aroused, you idiot."

John chuckled, nibbling at Sherlock's shoulder through the expensive fabric of his shirt. "I really don't know what to believe, Sherlock. Do you want me or hate me?" He pushed his groin hard against his lovely captive's ass and, despite centuries of self-control, was incapable of subduing a wall-shaking moan.

"It's the blood," Sherlock said.

John continued rutting against Sherlock, but he took note of the way Sherlock's eyes closed and his breath hitched. "Is it? Just the blood?"

"I don't … know."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something. And he was hungry. A morning of firsts." He kissed behind Sherlock's ear.

"Perhaps," the detective said quietly.

That single, weighted word awoke the creature in John like a jolt of electricity. The creature begged to tear those slim, black trousers from Sherlock's body and take him on his knees on the hard floor. John could picture it perfectly: the glare of Sherlock's pale skin under the kitchen lights; the tightness of an untouched body; and the decadent noises he would undoubtedly make.

And yet.

John subdued his dark creature and relaxed his grip on Sherlock's wrist. "Bedroom. Now."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock did as he was told and climbed the steps back to John's bedroom. That mere coffee mug of human blood had soaked into his stomach and apparently traveled not only to his cock but his brain, as well, for he felt fully alert—and desperate to touch John's skin.

He stood and looked down at the bed that had been his home for what seemed like days: blankets askew, cast in the quiet glow of John's bedside lamp plus the added sunlight through the curtains, and the scent of John everywhere.

John arrived behind him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock leaned back against him, no longer averse to this situation at all. John loved him, wanted to spend eternity with him. Why not be lovers?

Perhaps that was the blood talking.

John's cold hands ran across Sherlock's stomach, and the detective half expected to be thrown on the bed and roughly ravaged at any moment if John's previous behaviors were any indication. So why the gentle touch? Why the soft kisses along his shoulder blades?

"John?"

As if reading his mind: "It's your first time, love. I said I'd worship you, didn't I?"

"I believe you also said my virginity was something you planned to destroy."

John nosed up his spine. "Destroyed, yes, by the time the day is done, but let's warm you up first, yeah?" He pulled away and turned Sherlock around with a strong hand on his shoulder. "Take off your clothes. I want to see you." John licked his bottom lip, and Sherlock had never seen quite that level of hunger on someone's face. John's eyes darted over Sherlock's still clothed body, from top to bottom, and his chest rose and fell swiftly, still out of breath perhaps from their kitchen wrestling match.

Well, Sherlock's pants did feel very tight. He took good care of himself, so he had nothing to be ashamed of. And his body was only transport, wasn't it? He thought that might now be a lie, as his body—although now dead—had never felt so alive.

He made quick work of the torn shirt and removed his trousers and socks. He stood up straight and tall in nothing but black pants when John stepped forward and cupped Sherlock's erection in the palm of his hand.

Sherlock's knees almost gave out, but John grunted in approval. "No wonder your ego's so big," he said, his fangs hanging shamelessly over the edge of his lips. His gaze, still blue, moved across Sherlock's chest. "You certainly do keep yourself in shape."

"How else could I chase down the criminals of—" He gasped, more in surprise than pain, when John bit into the skin just above Sherlock's left nipple. John sucked hard on the open wound, and this time, Sherlock's knees did give out. John was there to catch him and carry him to the bed as he continued to drink.

He felt oddly empty when John pulled his teeth away and stood, quickly divesting himself of his shirt, jeans, and pants. Fully nude—and looking fully the predator he was—he climbed on top of Sherlock and loomed above him with hands on either side of Sherlock's head, knees on either side of his hips.

"Roll over," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes instead. "It's demeaning."

John blinked several times and raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, when will you learn that things go much easier when you just do as I say?"

"Possibly never."

John moved faster than even Sherlock's immortal eyes could see, and when his head stopped spinning, he found himself on his stomach in the center of John's bed with John kneeling between his spread thighs. He felt cool air on his bare skin and wondered when the hell he'd been divested of his last layer of protection. Immediately, Sherlock tried to sit up, but John's hand pressed into the center of his back and held him down.

"Relax, love. You'll like this. Promise."

"More of your promises," he said, his face muffled against a pillow.

"Well, this promise is ironclad."

At first, the sensations were nothing but unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Eventually, John pulled his hand away and leaned forward, pressing kisses down Sherlock's spine. "I said relax."

As John's hands resumed their movements, Sherlock found he didn't have the focus to respond because uncomfortable was rapidly becoming overwhelming. He curled fabric between his fists and squeezed his eyes shut tight. The breaths came swift and rough through his parted lips as John added more pressure.

"John … I …" God, why couldn't he speak? In the darkness of his closed eyelids, he sensed the immortal change in himself. He could smell the flowers in Mrs. Hudson's flat. He heard the bell at the coffee shop three blocks away. He tasted blood on his tongue and knew he was fully a vampire. The time of transition had passed. He was an improved version of himself, and yet, he couldn't speak.

"Oh, my sweet virgin."

A moment of lucidity: "No one has ever called me sweet."

John chuckled, his face pressed against Sherlock's upper back, and then, with no warning, John was inside him. Sherlock winced and fought the urge to throw John across the room—an exercise in futility, as John would simply return to the bed with a fanged sneer and monster's aggression.

Sherlock shuddered and held tighter to the sheets.

John kissed his upper back and whispered, "My love, my love, my love …"

Sherlock wasn't even sure John was aware of his ramblings, but they distracted Sherlock enough so that he did finally relax. And something unfathomable occurred. The discomfort, the overwhelming fullness, changed to become a dizzying pleasure that tore a deep, rumbling groan from Sherlock's throat.

"Yes," John said. "God, Sherlock, make that noise again."

Mouth open and slack against the pillows, Sherlock made a number of new noises. He found himself not simply accepting John's thrusts but pushing back against them until John slowed his movements.

"John, don't stop, pl—"

The 700-year-old vampire took hold of Sherlock's hair and dragged his head back painfully. He dug his teeth into Sherlock's throat, and Sherlock came with a surprised shout. It felt as though he was dying all over again. Dying from pleasure.

Teeth still in Sherlock's skin, John thrust rapidly and finished with a groan against Sherlock's neck. He pulled his fangs free and licked the wound until Sherlock suspected he might actually go mad from sensory overload. When John moved inside him a few more times, gently, Sherlock decided sanity was overrated anyway. As was intellect, considering Sherlock's mind felt blissfully blank.

John rested his full weight on Sherlock's back as he spoke. "I never could have expected … never could have wished … You're everything to me. Everything. Forever. I'll walk beside you forever."

Sherlock untangled his clenched fists from the sheets and reached down until he found John's hand. He wrapped their fingers together and squeezed. "John Watson. What a fascinating creature."

"And I'm yours, Sherlock Holmes. Desperately. Endlessly." He rolled off Sherlock, but before Sherlock had time to feel bereft at the absence of his touch, John pulled Sherlock to him, his face against John's chest.

After the intensity of the last few minutes, Sherlock allowed himself to be cuddled. He listened to John's breathing and … "There's been a murder reported in Hampstead Heath. Decapitated corpse."

"Hmm?"

"I can apparently hear police radio now."

John chuckled. "God help us, what have I done?"

"I'll receive a text from Lestrade in approximately three minutes. We should get dressed."

"Sherlock, we need to shower. And remember: no using vampire powers in front of humans, you git."

"So we shower." He tried to pull away, and John pulled him right back, pressing kisses to his forehead. "John."

"Frankly, I think the decapitated corpse can wait. I've hardly destroyed your virginity, and although I may be yours, you're also mine. You're not leaving this bed until I say so."

Sherlock leaned forward and bit into John's throat, which did not manage to make John angry. Much the contrary, John seemed utterly pleased by the development.

"Now," John panted, "I have to punish you."

He rolled Sherlock onto his back and lifted his arms above his head. The familiar feel of handcuffs encircled his wrists as John straddled his waist. "I'll be able to break right through them," Sherlock said, rattling metal against the headboard.

John grinned and shook his head. "They're made for vampires." He leaned forward and licked Sherlock's ear. "As is the bed frame."

He stared up at his flat mate and realized he was no longer afraid of John's dark side. He wasn't afraid of pain. No, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, was now afraid of something new.

"I thought you wanted to preserve my mind. I thought that's what this immortality was all about," he said.

John's brow furrowed.

"So how do you plan to manage that if you fuck me into idiocy?"

John snorted. "You'll recover," he said and kissed Sherlock hard, wet, and full of fang. Sherlock, for his part, really didn't mind.


End file.
